


Part 12: The Sound of Silence

by Syrena_of_the_lake



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Elementary (TV)
Genre: Dragon!Sherlock - Freeform, Dragons, Gen, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:07:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4149459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DragonSherlock's new skill has some unexpected side effects. And Canth is a conniving Dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part 12: The Sound of Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Transposable_Element](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transposable_Element/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Part 11: Sophistry!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095100) by [Transposable_Element](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transposable_Element/pseuds/Transposable_Element). 



> With many, many thanks to Transposable Element for continuing the story!

Joan tried, she truly did. She tried with every quick-firing neuron, every synapse of her being _not_ to think it. But it really had been rather pleasant to have enough time (and quiet) into which she could voice her own observations, without Sherlock charging into the lead of every investigation and conversation. And now, to have even the privacy and calm of her own mind invaded by his voice, where not even headphones could drown him out–

"I _heard_ that." Smug, snide, indignant – and a touch hurt? His voice echoed within her skull.

"Damnit," Joan muttered.

Professor Scrubb rocked back on his heels. His lips pursed in a silent whistle. "Well," he said, "this will make things easier." He didn’t even shrink back under the force of their combined glares. Joan had to give him points for that. Grudgingly.

"The _crate_ , Watson." Sherlock's claws rapped an impatient rhythm on the wood. "Or have you forgotten already?"

_I've already forgotten what silence was like_ , she thought sourly. _I think I liked you better mute_.

"So you said." Sherlock's eyes darkened to an ember-orange. Joan wished she knew what that meant.

"It means I'm annoyed."

"Sherlock," she grated aloud. "Shut. UP."

"I'll get a crowbar," offered the Professor loudly into the awkward pause.

"No need," said Joan absently, as an image came to her of dragon-claws prying, wings beating, the lift and leverage–

She blinked. _That's disconcerting_ , she told him.

Unrepentant, Sherlock began dictating. "Tell him to get a large set of iron tongs, flame-resistant gloves and a bucket of water. Oh, and an asbestos pad."

Joan dutifully complied, but she rounded on Sherlock the moment the Professor left the room. "I am _not_ a secretary. Or a translator between you and the rest of the world. Why can't you tell him yourself?"

Sherlock remained uncharacteristically silent.

"Are you sure you want an answer to that question?" Professor Scrubb stumbled back into the room, laden with fireproof gear and a three-foot-long pair of tongs. "Will these do?" He dropped the equipment with a clatter. "What was I saying – oh, yes, the nature of the bond between dragon and rider applies more here than fire-lizard Impressions, I think. For all the size correlation, I'd say the intelligence quotient is much more on par with a Bronze dragon–"

"WHAT?" roared Sherlock in her mind. "On par with that lummox?"

_I think he was more brown than bronze,_ Joan thought before she could stop herself. The roar rose to a mental screech, and Joan winced.

Oblivious, the Professor continued. "And in any case, the bond is quite private but most certainly bidirectional. Why, in mating season–"

" _What_?" yelped Joan.

Sherlock's eyes whirled an unsettling shade of purple.

The Professor cleared his throat. "Ah. Yes, well, those ramifications can be explored – er, enumerated – ah, later." He hefted the tongs. "Now, which crate is it?"

"The one with the great bloody burn mark," said Joan in irritation.

The Professor and Sherlock both turned to eye her, askance at both her tone and phrasing.

"I think time may be more of a factor than I previously thought," the Professor said slowly.

Joan frowned, uncomprehending. But Sherlock assented with a quick jerk of his head, and turned his focus to the crate underfoot. Joan experienced an odd double-vision of the crate from a much closer angle, superimposed over her own vantage point.

"Steady," a voice whispered to her, pulsing with simultaneous concern and reassurance.

"I'm fine," she murmured aloud. The Professor and Sherlock exchanged another long look that Joan could not interpret, and Sherlock literally flew into motion. He sank his claws into the wood and strained, wings beating furiously.

The crate groaned. And then the lid popped loose. 

* * *

 

Canth stretched, feeling a sense of satisfaction that had nothing to do with his popping vertebrae.

In all his travels, the immense Brown had learned a few things about humans. They were fiercely independent creatures. In this world, for example, they had no Dragons – so they built wings of metal to carry them instead. And their machines were almost as intelligent as AIVAS, though lacking in both foresight and compassion. The people of this world structured their lives around constant communication, yet lived isolated from each other. With the exception of Dragonriders, precious few humans anywhere knew how to commune thought-to-thought or heart-to-heart. It seemed to Canth a very lonely existence.

Something else he had learned: humans seldom knew what was best for them, like a young fire-lizard that refused the most nourishing food in favor of gnawing on a shining trinket. They required management. And the best way to guide a human towards a particular action, Canth had discovered, was to make him think it was his own idea.

Had he known the little lizard-man would take so swiftly to telepathy, Canth might have tried introducing it sooner. This Sherlock possessed a formidable intelligence, to be certain. Limited imagination, perhaps, but admirable intelligence.

Still, his demeanor left much to be desired.

Canth rested his snout on a sun-warmed rock and settled in to wait. _F'nor_? he called. _What is a lummox?_

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean to kick the crate down the road, but I don't know what's inside either!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ch. 13: The Case of the Mysterious Crate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4205319) by [Syrena_of_the_lake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake)




End file.
